


A dinner with Tilda and Catherine

by Markath



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6189223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markath/pseuds/Markath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another take on the question: „What if...?“ happening before the last two episodes of S04.<br/>(It refers to my other story „Legacies“. Reading that first - at least chapter 1 and 2 - could lead to a better understanding, but one could do without.) A <em>classy Rinch</em> story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

The rainy day suited his mood. Nowhere else to be than in the precinct across from Fusco, working on his endless stack of documents – which, to his personal dismay, seemed never to vanish.  
Where had the freedom of Mr. Reese gone?  
After getting another cup of coffee to stop his inner turmoil he had woken up with, he found a folded paper on his desk.  
A questioning look went to Fusco who was just getting seated.  
“Who...?”  
But Fusco shook his head. “Been somewhere else. Don't know who left it.”  
“Just came along from the fax machine. Thought you made a request, Riley, since your name is mentioned on top!” A voice from another police officer shouted through the hall.  
“Thanks.” was John's short answer, although he had no idea of doing so.

He took the folded fax in his hand and opened it. One single photo under his name – and staring at it, John was silent for a long moment.  
Fusco had watched him and came around to take a look at it.  
“Who's that?” he simply asked, already guessing that John knew the person.  
But John only answered: “Somebody I haven't seen in a while.”  
He grabbed the fax and put it in his pocket.  
Fusco, who knew better when not to ask questions, went back to his desk. However, from time to time, he shot one look over to his partner, who had concentrated again on the paperwork – or so it seemed.

But John's thoughts had wandered elsewhere – because it had been _Tilda_ on the photo.  
Tilda, for whom he had worked a little over half a year when they _first_ went into hiding after Samaritan came online. Tilda, bringing him slowly back into normal life. Tilda, who had helped him along with Catherine and Henry finding Bear and Harold again after losing them.  
And _everything else_ that came after...

But who else could have sent the photo to him than the Machine? Harold would have simply called to tell him they had a new number, wouldn't he?

Although the terms of their relationship had utterly _changed after_ they had to slip into new covers again – John from a barista in Tilda's coffeeshop to Detective Riley, and Harold from a senior employee in Catherine's Arts Gallery to Professor Whistler – they still had their ties of friendship. It took some time going back to the things that were before, getting Root and Shaw into the team and starting their important work of saving numbers again, but they managed.  
He had often wondered why but Harold had seemed to accept the identity of Professor Whistler in almost the same quick manner as being an arts advisor in Catherine's gallery. However, to persuade him to work with the Machine anew had cost John a lot of patience. _And_ with the girls onboard Harold returned to his private shell, always telling John that these second covers were their working covers now and protection of them all was the most important thing in their lives from now on. He insisted more than once upon not deviating from them.  
John hadn't disagreed, knowing Harold too well to object when he had set his mind. And he had understood quite clearly the message behind it: Harold didn't want to continue _their relationship_. Maybe he had forced Harold into it, anyway. They had been both so long alone that the natural thing to do was to stick more closely together, wasn't it?  
So neither one of them had mentioned again these short and happy moments of intimate togetherness.  
They simply picked up where they had left off _before_ Samaritan came online.

He was really confused. And distraught.  
Tilda had been among one of the kindest persons he had come to known, so she could definitely not be neither perpetrator nor victim!  
Who would want to hurt an owner of a well-known coffeeshop in Brooklyn? Had he overseen something while working almost seven months for her? There had never been an incident. She led a full-working, quiet life and no enemies he would know of.  
So what did the fax mean? Should he protect her? Or should he ignore it?  
What had the machine in mind sending him her photo? He could ask Root...better not.  
That life he had led then, it was so full of emotions. That short time he had spent with Harold being happy, it seemed millions of miles away right now. Emotions had no place here anymore. He was back in his daily fight saving lives and trying to leave the world in a better place.

Finally he made up his mind and did a background check on her. But nothing to find in the police records or in the database than the things he already knew about her.  
The best thing was to talk to her in person, he decided. So he grabbed his jacket and turned to Fusco.  
“Running an errand. I'll be back in an hour.”  
Fusco lifted his eyebrows, but nodded. “Sure thing. Want me to start a rescue mission if you don't show up in time?”  
“It's not in the woods, Lionel.”  
John smiled shortly and left, leaving Fusco behind with a bad feeling in his stomach.  
The next moment Lionel picked up his cellphone and dialed a number.  
“Hey, Glasses. What's that new case about John is working on the side?”  
The bad feeling deepened as he heard Harold's cautious answer: “A new case, Detective? Do you care to explain?”  
“John got a fax with a woman's photo. He told me she was someone he hadn't seen in a while. After that he stopped working and now he's gone.” Fusco reported.  
“A fax? From whom, Detective?”  
Fusco had to smirk a little bit. “From our fax machine in the hall, Glasses. - But I can tell you John did definitely not expect it!”  
“I see what I can do, Detective.” Harold told him shortly. “Thank you for that information.”  
Fusco nodded. “I'm more worried about Wonderboy since he got shot in that cabin, you know?”  
Another police officer came by to ask things so he ended the call and put the phone away, hoping that Glasses would inform him at once when something happened.


	2. Harold

Harold was in his office, contemplating the homework of his students when he got the call from Detective Fusco. Still in the process of getting used to the college protocol, he wondered often how all the other professors got along. He had no assistant so he was doing everything by himself. Usually, he liked the quiet and independence here in his office between the classes he held, but today some sort of a mixed feeling was with him and the report from Fusco added nothing to ease his mind.  
What had this fax been about? For John?  
Before he realized it, he had changed his internet access and started a new program on his laptop to look for the fax. Some minutes later the photo of Tilda envisioned on his screen.  
He recognized her immediately.  
 _After_ John had found him in Catherine's Art Gallery, he had spent three wonderful Sunday mornings in her coffeeshop waiting for John while reading his beloved books and enjoying the best coffee he had ever tried. He was allowed to watch a smiling John working with Tilda at his side – and he would never forget those simple moments of happiness. And how _good_ it had felt to share more with John. 

But he also knew these dangers they _now_ were in. And he would never ever want to endanger John, Shaw and Root.   
He had been shocked being confronted with a second cover identity to live again with - and was only left to speculate with how close to danger they must have been to trigger another change of cover.  
And since there was no protest from John after he had tied up new rules concerning the contact with each other – therefore signaling him that their _sharing more_ (or how else should he call it?) was over – he supposed that John had seen it in the same reasonable way.  
Four seemed to be the number in his life: four years with Grace and four weeks with John. He had let her go. He had let _him_ go. Because he truly needed his focus on everything else – and right now on preventing a war. 

It had been the best solution for them both. And he was sure he had done the right thing. Or not?

Teaching “Ethics of High Frequency Decision Making” sounded in the beginning very promising, but in reality the dullness of college life did not take long to come down on Harold. He didn't have many students but the ones that stayed seemed interested enough in this topic to continue attending his class so he was not ungrateful for it.  
However, the photo of Tilda made him think about his old job in Catherine's gallery when he was selling art to a lot of customers. He had been good at it. Content.  
Today, he was worrying constantly about them all. Especially about John, being a cop now. And opening up to his therapist, Dr. Iris Campbell.   
He could only guess if it were more than opening up. For this reason, he was glad to have met Beth in between, who reminded him a little bit of Grace in the passion and the dedication for her work, which he could fully understand and share with her. Although he had to give her up in the end.

There were many things now he hadn't shared with John. And should have?  
A knock on the door interrupted his line of thought.  
“Please come in,” he answered and one of his students entered.  
“Professor Whistler, I was wondering whether you will help me...”  
He tried to concentrate on the matter in vain. While listening to the student's descriptions, Harold's mind continued wandering.

These four weeks with John had been...so _full of life_ – he did not want to forget. Everything he had longed for with his dedicated and loyal friend, all the times they had walked through good and bad together, had been fulfilled in meeting John again. Or had it been the loneliness that had drawn them together? There had been no hesitation in John to meet him half way in the change of their friendship into relationship.  
Harold thought he had been brave - in seeing the necessity to protect their covers - to put a stop to it. Nowadays he also wasn't sure if he hadn't forced John into something without thinking about the future.  
“Professor?”  
The student's open question brought him back.  
“Yes.” Harold tried to refocus on the topic at present.  
”You will think about it?”  
Did John ever think about it? The nights that became more important than the days?  
Harold nodded, trying to smile a little bit. “I will put in another request for you...”  
“Thank you so much for the talk, Professor.” His student smiled back and left his office. 

Alone again, Harold was still contemplating – not the grading that he should have done by now, but the outcome of their second cover identities. He had a feeling that this time, they would have to stay longer in their default lives, because Samaritan really seemed on the lookout for them. To be secure, that was the most important thing. To be out of the radar of Samaritan. To be...or not to be?   
Now this thing with Tilda happened. A real threat? Harold entertained some doubt. He remembered a very tough and straightforward coffeeshop owner who seemed to have both feet firmly on the ground.   
It seemed more likely to him as if the Machine wanted to remind them of what Miss Groves had told them: in the end, there was still hope. Hope that John and him should pick up where they left?   
He shook his head about his own personal wishful thinking.

He knew that John would go straightaway to Tilda's coffeeshop. After some minutes of reflection, he finally made a decision. He shut his laptop down, took his things, closed his office and was on his way to the next busstop. The coffeeshop wasn't that far away.  
Maybe he could meet John there and talk.


	3. Tilda's coffeeshop

Standing on the opposite side street of the coffeeshop John still knew so well, he took one minute to overthink the whole situation. Spending many months working there, he felt excited to see them again. And at the same time guilty at not having seen them in so long. But either way, he had to find out _why_ the Machine had sent him Tilda's photo.  
So he entered, inhaled deeply the smell of the freshly brewed coffee and looked for Tilda.  
They were all still here: Brian, Tim and Kate, being busy between the many customers.  
Of course it was Brian who discovered him.  
“Tilda, look who's here!” he shouted.  
Then he came around the counter and hugged John in a joyful way he was _not_ prepared for. Brian took his elbow and pulled him behind the counter.  
“Man, where have you been? We missed you. Tilda said...”  
And then John heard Tilda's pleased voice. “You coming back into the job?”  
Turning, he smiled a tiny little bit. “Not exactly. I'm here because...”  
The next remark from her took him completely by surprise.  
“You a cop?” She suddenly had seen his badge that he wore on his belt and pointed at it reproachfully.  
He gulped, still smiling. “Actually it's Detective. Detective John Riley.”  
Brian looked very surprised while they were talking.  
“You're working for the NYPD?” he asked incredulously. “What the heck brought you here all these months? Working undercover?”  
“No.” John shook his head. This was a wretched beginning, indeed. “I worked undercover before. I needed some time out. That's all,” he said to Brian, but his words were only meant for Tilda.  
The way she scrutinized him from head to toe told him that he had suddenly lost a big part of her trust.  
“Can we talk in private?” he pleaded, turning to her.  
“Okay,” she answered shortly, returning to her office in a separate room in the back of the shop.  
John followed her silently. _This_ would definitely not be easy.  
Tilda took the place behind her office desk and looked him straight in the eyes.  
“So. What do you want?”  
He sighed inwardly, but smiled again.  
“I have some information from my CI that your place might be in danger...”  
“Really?” Tilda answered dryly. “How so?”  
She remained silent for some seconds. “And that's why you show up here after you stopped working from one day to another?”  
“I left a message on your phone and explained myself, Tilda,” John reacted, slightly offended.  
“So am I accused of something?” Tilda asked, ignoring his answer.  
“No.”  
“That means I can go back to my work – now that you've informed me about the danger, Detective?” she said neutrally.  
“Tilda...” he began.  
“No, John. - You know, I thought we were friends. Friends trust each other. By all means, at least you could've told me that you were a cop - temporarily suspended, I suspect? I knew you wanted to keep things for yourself and had problems with opening up, but by helping you find Bear and Harold I thought...I don't know. - I hope you didn't lie to him, too?”  
“We _are_ friends and I still trust you, Tilda.” John emphasized calmly after a moment. “That I didn't tell the whole story doesn't mean I lied. - I was needed back at the precinct, that's why I stopped working here and returned. It wasn't easy for me. And _please_ leave Harold out of it.”  
“Now.” After a slight hesitation, John leaned a little bit forward. “I am here because I really believe that something could happen here. So why don't you tell me if there are enemies I don't know of or...”  
“John.” Tilda sighed impatiently. “You yourself worked here - over seven months? I guess you would know of my long list of enemies.” She said coolly. “Please. - Where did you hear that nonsense of the danger I am in? - Or do you know something that _I_ don't know of?” Her words turned sarcastic.  
“I simply ask questions, Tilda.” John shot back. Why didn't she want to understand?  
“Is that all, Detective Riley?” She snapped.  
“ _Tilda_...” John prepared to say again, sounding a little bit more desperate.  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, John. - But in case you forgot, I am not so lost either.” She smiled a little by repeating his words. “If there's nothing else that you can tell me besides your informant what makes this whole thing plausible - I really have work to do.”  
John shook his head, but finally stood up and turned to the door.  
Tilda seemed suddenly to have reconsidered something, because he heard her saying:  
“Ok, but you showing up here by yourself indicates that you are worrying about me. - You know what? If you mean it seriously this time, invite me to dinner and I would gladly have a personal chat along with Harold and Bear. How about tomorrow evening?”  
Thank god, that sounded more like the Tilda he knew. Nevertheless, he couldn't hide his great astonishment.  
“You want to come over for dinner?”  
Tilda smiled again. “I remember Harold telling me what a good cook you are. I'd love to test that for myself.”  
“He did.” John answered wryly.  
But since he was grateful for another chance to talk to her, he finally nodded.  
“Dinner it is, then. - I will let you know what time and where, alright?”  
“Fine by me.” Tilda replied while he was leaving, still smiling.  
John smirked back, but he was not so sure of the brilliance of this idea. First, this would be a very... _awkward_ evening. Second, he had to persuade Harold...to _play along_. How could he make him do that? Since they would have to talk about the past months...Catherine, Harold's employer, was suddenly on his mind. Maybe he should invite her, too, so they would be four persons and the whole situation not only embarrassing for himself!  
As he went outside the coffeeshop, he spotted Professor Whistler on the other side of the street with a very concerned look on his face, obviously waiting for him. John sighed. He should have known.  
_Fine_. He could tell Harold straightaway the situation the Machine had them both presented.


	4. Meeting

“I guess there is something you want to tell me, Detective Riley?”  
Harold welcomed John after crossing the street.  
John could only nod, not sure where to begin.  
“I might suggest a short visit to the park nearby. Certainly we can find a bench there.” Harold noted.  
John nodded again, silently.  
“It's not far away.” Harold added.  
The fell together in a slow trot, John as always adapting to Harold's handicapped movements.  
“You hacked the fax, that's why you're here.” John's remark was not a question but simply stating a fact.  
“Detective Fusco called me. - After that, I was wondering...”  
John sighed. “He did, didn't he?” Then he shook his head. “He seems constantly worrying.”  
“Yes, he is.” was Harold's laconic answer. He hesitated. “He left me wondering if there is a particular reason...?”  
It was as close to a question as only Harold could ask.  
He knew he jumped in at the deep end, well aware that neither of them had a heart-to-heart-talk lately with each other. John still knew next to nothing about his encounter with Beth and Root. And Harold could only guess about the shoot-out at the cabin, when John was found shot and hypothermic in a car by Detective Fusco.  
John gave no answer to that hint, but they finally reached the bench and sat down.  
Fearing that he would get no answer, Harold thought about raising a more open topic.  
“What did you find out by asking Tilda?”  
“Nothing.” This time John did not hide his disappointment. “She didn't take me seriously.”  
Then he continued, not looking at Harold: “The only thing she was serious about was seeing me in action.”  
“In action?” Harold repeated, slightly perplexed.  
“ _You_ told her of my cooking skills. So she told me I should cook for her tomorrow, along with you, Professor.”  
“Along with me? Why? She thinks I am a boring adept, that's all.”  
“Maybe she wants you to be a reliable witness to our talk...I don't know. I didn't get far in our interview.”  
Harold raised his eyebrows. “And you are willing to weather through such an evening?”  
John sighed.  
“I didn't really have a choice in that matter. The only way to ask her more questions with even the slightest chance of getting answers out of her was to acquiesce to her dinner demand...”  
Here John was interrupted.  
“Really, Detective Riley.” Harold answered dryly. “Do you think your entertainment skills will hold out that long?”  
“I didn't know that I'm not good enough at entertaining, Professor.”  
“We can't afford to get anyone suspicious about who we are.”  
“I'm aware of that.”  
“Well, for example, how will you explain your new job?”  
“I already did. And besides, you will have to be there, too, Harold.”  
“I am certainly not going to be of any use, Mr. Riley. This is a dinner between friends as you so nicely pointed out.”  
“Remember that she thinks I am with you, Professor Whistler?” John said with an eyebrow lifted.  
“I could be...somewhere else that evening...” Harold clearly wanted to avoid the situation.  
“You leaving me _alone_ with this?” John asked. “Just so you know, it would be even more interesting for Tilda if I told her that Catherine would come along, too,...” John started.  
“Are you then prepared for the questions we will have to answer?” Harold cut him off, evidently uncomfortable.  
“...and the ladies will not only concentrate on us but have a lot to chat about themselves.” John completed his sentence. After throwing him one short glance, he added:  
“Do you have a better idea, Professor? Retreat is no option.”  
Harold gave him a look, lips tightly pressed together, but he eventually admitted: “No. Although I still don't see the point of me being there.”  
“I think it's easier to cook for four. And you said yourself that entertaining is highly requested - so as a master of that I obviously need your help.” John mentioned ironically.  
For the first time there was a tiny smile around John's lips. A smile, so rare in these last months, that it made Harold give in.  
“Dinner it is then, tomorrow.” He sighed. “When do you want dinner to start?”  
“I thought around 7 pm?”  
“I'll be there half an hour earlier.”  
“I may need your help with shopping, Professor. _And_ spending more time together makes us a little bit better...acquainted again with each other and our former covers. I'll pick you up around 3 pm at the college.”  
“Do _I_ have a choice in that?” Harold asked now ironically, too. But he nodded slowly.  
“Let's hope that your plan works.”  
“Do you mean the dinner or the entertainment?”  
He earned another dismayed look from Harold. “If you are fishing for compliments, don't look at me, Detective. And I refrain from saying anything more.” Harold stood, turned around and made his way slowly back to the street.  
“Good to have you by my side, then.” John couldn't resist to shout after him.

He was really looking forward to tomorrow – having a little bit of time to spend with Harold for once not _only_ in the service of the Machine. And then...?  
Maybe there was more _hope_ in this evening than he had ever let himself believe in the long run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge thank you, _justayellowumbrella_!
> 
> And thank you, _Wuchel_ , too. 'Müss ma no a bisserl üben.' LOL


	5. Shopping

John couldn't wait for 3 pm the next day. After they had parted he went back to the precinct only to be told that Fusco was responding to a call with another officer. Although he had come to appreciate Lionel sitting across from him, this time he was glad to be alone.  
He had to think about the menu he wanted to serve the ladies and _his_ man. It had to be a menu to seduce them all. The ladies _for not_ asking too many questions, the man _for_ asking to stay the night. He laughed inwardly about his crazy thoughts.  
But then he called Tilda to officially invite her over, having instructed Harold to do the same with Catherine.  
Having Tilda's number come up still had him on alert, but at the same time it had provided him an evening with Harold...and the chance for more.

The chance of getting close to Harold again and putting all the events of the last months that stood between them aside. No more acting cautiously, no more enduring feelings of displacement and alienation – because Harold _still_ was someone close to John's heart. Although Iris knew a lot about him now, Harold still was the only one with whom he would share his whole life, without limits. With whom he _always_ would feel safe being himself.

Sighing, he returned to his stack of documents, trying to get it all done before tomorrow afternoon. He worked until late, checking his phone from time to time for any messages about a late snack with Professor Whistler, but it stayed silent. Maybe Harold had to think about a lot of things, too.  
As John had watched Harold meeting Beth from a distance he had known that the encounter had resparked the memories of Grace. Beth – who was closer in age, on the same level in science as Harold and generally sharing the same interests with him – clearly posed a chance for Finch at a happy life as well.  
What he didn't know was if Beth was a serious competition to reckon with or not.

*

With little sleep and a busy morning at the precinct, he was still in a good mood, patient with his coworkers and clients and of course with Fusco.  
Lionel seemed to sense something like this because he said to John while they trudged through paperwork: “You're in good humor, aren't you? Met the fax-woman?”  
One odd look from John told him enough, so Lionel simply smiled to himself.  
Although John was willing to tell him more about the case, having wanted to change since his last adventure alone in the cabin, he was glad that Fusco seemed to have come to his own conclusions.  
Right now he simply didn't want to correct him, still being unsure of the outcome of this dinner.  
He let his gaze wander back to the stack of documents he had to work on _before_ he could pick up Harold at the college and sighed, earning another amused look from Lionel.

Professor Whistler taught a double-lesson and had time to ponder the upcoming events while writing robotically on the blackboard.  
Calling Catherine had not been that easy after getting the message from John to do it. She had obviously not been happy about Harold leaving her gallery so abruptly although he had told himself that he was needed elsewhere. That's why she was surprised when she recognized him on the phone. In the end, her curiosity had won and she told him she would love to come over for dinner and chat with John, Tilda and him. Harold knew that indirect questions from her would come during the dinner, not then via the phone. He was lucky that Catherine had always been one who drew conclusions of her own very quickly.  
After the class was over, Harold hurried back to his office and tried to have everything ready for tomorrow, knowing – or inwardly hoping? - he would not be back at the college until then.

Whatever it was he had tried to avoid – risking their identities, risking his _heart_ \- there was nevertheless a chance to enjoy the evening, so why being pessimistic about it?  
When was the last time John had cooked dinner for him? Spending time surrounded by friends? Also they had to get their stories straight. There was a lot to discuss. And he wanted to make Catherine and Tom – who would surely pick her up after dinner – to bring Tilda safely home so there would be no problem.  
Whilst returning back to the homework he still had to correct, he had to admit he was looking forward to the time with John shopping.  
He was not yet ready when John knocked at his office door, but the fifteen minutes it took Harold to finish, John took Bear outside and played with him on the grounds. 

“Detective Riley.”  
John looked around and saw Harold coming towards him. A loud whistle brought Bear back from the end of the campus ground. So, here they were.  
A longer silence followed, just as if the men knew there _could be_ a change between them tonight.

“My car is just around the corner.” John mentioned finally and adapted to Harold's steps while Bear trotted peacefully between them.  
They walked in silence, both full of thoughts what the next few hours would bring.  
After taking his spot in the car next to John, Harold wanted to break the silence by asking: “Have you planned what you would like to cook for the ladies?”  
“I sincerely hope you will try it, too.” John replied.  
“Of course I will.” Harold answered pointedly. “I was just wondering if...”  
“If you want to know the menu, you could just ask, Harold.” John said amused. “By the way, the choice of wine is yours. I guess you would know better which bottle suits the meal.”  
Harold smiled a little. “I certainly will choose the right one. What do we have? Meat? Fish?”  
John threw him a side look. “Fish.”  
“Alright. And how about an aperitif? Digestif? Or would you like to offer the ladies a bottle of champagne?”  
“The choice of drinks is utterly yours, Professor,” John said with a small smile on his lips.

He drove for awhile until he stopped in front of a nondescript looking superstore with the name “Supermercato Italiano”.  
Harold looked taken aback at the neon sign.  
“You chose an Italian menu?”  
Painful memories of Rome and a plane - not so long ago - flashed in the back of his mind.  
John caught the small switch in Harold's voice and tried to smile.  
“Yes. I know... It also meant a _restart_ , Harold.” He added softly.  
A skeptical look was all he got.  
“Well. Then I will go with Italian wine, too.” Harold answered neutrally, getting out of the car.

They entered the supermarket and got a cart. John knew exactly what he wanted and was shopping very quickly, obviously not his first time here. Harold, on the other hand, was taking a detailed look at the jam-packed shelves, deciphering the contents of the groceries labeled in Italian only.

“Can I leave you here? I'll bring the rest of my ingredients back to you...” John said to him inbetween. He realized that Harold had paused awhile in front of the wine section.  
Harold nodded, still excited about the wide range of wine racks before him. He had not known that such a well-stocked supermarket specializing in Italian food existed in the outskirts of New York, since he was more the restaurant going type with a love for those that got the best critics.  
John left him there with the cart and for the first time Harold indulged in the opportunity to watch him go, enjoying quietly the gracious and elegant movements of the tall, handsome man who had taken him grocery shopping today. There had been so little time to bathe in art and beauty that watching John finding his way so easily, going around all barriers nearly took his breath away.

If he were honest with himself, the _longing_ was still there. Longing for John, for his smile only for him, for his surprising tenderness and gentleness, for his caring, for his hands, for his touch, for his body. It was in the way John moved that Harold suddenly experienced the rainbow of his feelings and his desire. He had possessed it, once. _Four weeks_.  
Living an irrelevant life to the Machine and to Samaritan. Doing a job he liked a lot during the day and spending the night with John.  
This evening, it would be the same: _being together_ , having the possibility for personal conversations – along with Catherine and Tilda. Something so simple as taking part in the joy of friends brought together. Something he hadn't had in a long time. Harold shook himself mentally. Now was not the time to feel sorry for himself. He returned his concentration back to the wine racks. 

In the end, there were too many bottles in the cart, but he couldn't stop himself.  
Looking into the cart, John only raised his eyebrows and said: “If we drink all of your choices, I'm not sure anybody will go home before sunrise. You want them all?”  
“Since I do not know what kind of fish you want to prepare and what side dishes will go along, I had to calculate for every possibility.” Harold defended himself.  
John had a knowing smile. “Relax, Professor. I'm buying dinner, so it's all on me. Maybe they will all come in handy. Besides, my wine rack could use more filling.”  
“These are much too good to rest in your wine rack. They should be drunk in time.” Harold answered at once.  
This time John couldn't resist a laugh. “I guess you'll have to come over more often, then.”  
“You'll never know when to expect more guests.” Harold mentioned, leaving the implied comment open for speculation.  
But John acted on his suggestion. “Do you mean house guests or bedroom guests?”  
“Being a very private person, I leave that to your business, Detective.” Harold said dryly.  
He would have loved for John to answer if there _were_ indeed any current bedroom guests, meaning Dr. Campbell, but John seemed not to have gotten the point of Harold's intention or he simply ignored it.  
Should he strive for a more direct question? But Harold was a gentleman, so he refrained from it. Besides, being a private person himself meant he shouldn't be asking others private questions.  
Maybe actually being in John's living space would answer the question itself. If she were a regular in his bedroom there must actually be something to find – in the bathroom or wheresoever. He would be determined to find it.

Looking at the full cart, he simply said: “Are we finished yet? Because quite frankly, I don't know what you will do in these two hours left to cook a complete four-course dinner.”  
John smiled again. “I will show you that it works, Professor.”  
“Let's hope that everything works as well.” Harold murmured.  
John leaned towards him. “Put your skepticism aside. Aren't we both pros on this?” he said in his ear.  
Yes, that's what _he_ feared. _And_ should welcome?  
There must have been something revealed in his face because John bent down to him again, whispering softly: “Of course, we are naturals, too. - I'm open to _everything_ , Harold.”  
The confession made Harold shudder. Had they not been standing in line before the cash register, what would he have done? What happened to the restriction and protection that he preached of everyday?  
But it would be so easy. Just to reach out _and_ touch. To get an answer from John, who, as he now knew again, would probably _never_ hesitate to kiss him back.  
Harold scolded himself. He seemed to destruct himself slowly. To torture himself. But wasn't he good at that? Even watching Grace from afar was something like torture. And it was the same with John. Always near, but not near enough.  
Today, tonight, he had a chance to set things right. Would he follow through?  
He didn't know, still frozen in his tracks.  
But John, always caring and loving, just ushered him through the waiting line, paid, and took him to his car. First he made him sit comfortably in the passenger seat, then he opened the trunk and put their shopping in there.  
“Shouldn't I help you with the stuff you just bought?” he called out but John only smiled at him again and finished loading the groceries.  
Harold tried to relax as best as he could on the way back to Manhattan and worked a little bit on his next lesson since John put his full attention on the growing traffic.


	6. Dinner

The bell rang. With a nervous look at a still smiling John, Harold left the kitchen to open the door.  
They had spent two hours full of preparations for the dinner. Lots of vegetables chopped and sliced. Seafood cleaned. Aperitif and wine put into the fridge. A table decorated festively. Finally took a shower and dressed adequately. Talked some questions and answers through. Been close to each other, but not close enough.  
Why was he so at edge and John so calm? He thought that John had more to lose than him. The stakes were high. They had to play perfectly... play? No. He needn't to play.   
Just to get along and turn back the time when he had _indeed_ been very happy with John.  
John's cooking skills were beyond asking so what would there be left to talk about? About their life as a couple? Or... the time that went by till then?  
Breathing deeply, he opened the door, welcoming the ladies.   
Both Tilda and Catherine had put dresses and high heels on, so Harold made some sincere compliments while taking care of their coats. Catherine put an excellent bottle of wine in Harold's hand and Tilda – more modern – a big bottle of lubricant wrapped with a red bow.  
Harold couldn't help but blush, which both ladies found very refreshing. It made them smile and wink while he showed them the way to the dining room.  
So far to the things we have to answer, Harold thought, sighing inwardly.  
Bear who laid in his bed in the dining room just looked over and then put his head back on his feet, sensing that the only thing for him to do tonight was watch.  
But Tilda came by, caressing him behind the ears and Catherine slipped him some goodies after asking Harold for his okay.

Just one minute later Harold came back with a cooled bottle and poured the aperitif in the glasses.  
“Since John is cooking an Italian menu, we will start with martini. Is that alright with you?” He asked.  
Tilda and Catherine both nodded and took their respective glasses.  
Harold turned towards the kitchen. “Dear, are you coming?”  
He couldn't help himself teasing John a little bit, still being out of sorts about bringing them into such a situation.  
John showed up immediately, still in an apron but taking his glass, the corners of his mouth twitched.  
Tilda was the first who raised her glass. “To friendship!” she said and toasted.  
After the first round, they all started speaking at the same time. John gave the ladies compliments and returned after awhile into the kitchen, only to show up a moment later with 'Caprese' and 'Bruschetta'.  
“I only heard about you cooking well, John.” Catherine said while they took their places at the festively decorated table that was set for four. “Now I see myself – glad that you invited me, too.” She glanced shortly to Harold, who was sitting next to her.  
Tilda smiled, facing Catherine. “You see, I always wondered why John liked the older imported Italian coffee machine so much. Family ties?”  
John shook his head. “I just came to like Italian food.” He shot a small smile to Harold, passing the plates with the salad and the bread on to him.

They ate in comfortable silence and emptied the plates. In the meantime, Harold had served the first wine, a white Pino Grigio, which the ladies liked immediately because of its fruity and light taste.  
John couldn't resist to whisper: “Knew you were good at this.”   
And made Harold smile a little.  
John left for the kitchen again.  
To avoid being questioned alone, Harold decided to tell a little bit from his college life. He spoke about his students and his topic in the actual semester and college in general. Tilda just leaned back and listened in silence while taking a look around her. Catherine, more interested in his report, asked him a lot, so John had to call twice before Harold responded. “Need a little help!”  
“Excuse me.” He said to the ladies, who followed him after a slight hesitation.  
They were now four persons in the kitchen, but John had at once duties for everyone: Harold had to collect the next round of plates, Tilda had to check the pasta and Catherine the clams (assuming she would know when they were ready) in the big pot while John was collecting some things from the fridge.  
“Smells wonderful.” Catherine said, inhaling the scent of white wine, garlic, parsley, olive oil and tomatoes. “Should better _go_ home by foot...”  
Tilda only added dryly: “I guess pasta is ready, if we want to eat it 'al dente'.”  
And Harold answered: “Plates are ready, too.”  
John grinned. “My team is operating just fine. Ready for the next course?”  
And then he had Tilda add the pasta to the clams and stir for a minute or so. He asked Harold to pass him the plates and ladled a good deal of pasta onto each one.   
They all returned back to the table and ate again. Catherine asked for a second portion which made John joke: “You know, there's a main course and a dessert waiting for you, too.”  
She shook her head. “Doesn't matter. I just love your – how did you call it - 'Spaghetti alle vongole'. Where did you learn to cook?”  
Harold was impressed, too. John had really served up an excellent menu so far. Good thing he had chosen more bottles of wine. So far they already had emptied two of the Pino Grigio. He knew Catherine enjoyed a glass of wine here and then. The same seemed to apply for Tilda, obviously.

They decided to go for a short break after the pasta and John couldn't escape Catherine's question because she asked a second time.  
He decided to tell the truth.  
“You don't travel the world and do not pick up something from here and there.”  
“Travel the world?” Tilda asked, eyebrows raised.  
“I wasn't always a cop. Spent some time in the army.” John admitted gracefully.   
“You're former military?”  
Tilda couldn't help but laugh. “I knew it when those students came in, bothering Mr Tierney, and you looked over and told Brian to stay calm. First I was worried but when I saw you watching them I couldn't help but feel almost sorry for them.”  
John only grinned, but Harold listened with great interest - knowing what John was capable of – and wanted to hear more about it.  
“You never told me that story.” He turned to John, amused.  
Tilda couldn't resist adding: “Yeah I just found out he's a very special kind of silent guy.”  
And to Harold: “I feared he's the same with you?!” It was half a question, half a statement.  
John's eyes flickered to Harold. “Am I?”   
Harold, having the attention on him now, cleared his throat. What was he supposed to say? Then he decided to go for a quick “No.”  
“Thank god.” Tilda sighed. “So, after all you are quite a couple, but - more a normal one, I guess.”  
John was thinking about his usual 'not every ex-soldier meets a reclusive billionaire' line but decided to bring it not up here.  
Catherine moved forward. “Since we are on that topic, Tilda and I would really love to know how you two – what was it? A cop and a Professor? - met.” She hesitated one moment, and added: “And why you both came heartbroken to work for us and why, for god's sake, you needed us to reunite?” She nodded, smiling to Tilda, and leaned backward.  
Harold and John looked one moment at each other. They had spoken about that question but not really explained anything to anyone. John seemed to hesitate, so Harold decided to take over.  
Smiling, he said: “It is indeed very simple.”  
“We met on a special case. I can only tell glimpses because it is all confidential.”  
Here Harold paused. “If I remember correctly, it was someone trying to lure people into false hopes. John had not many clues at first, so I hopped in to help him.”  
“But you're a college Professor, right? What did you have to do with the NYPD?” Tilda wondered.  
“Yes, yes, but I was kind of involved...so it was only logical to ask me in. Isn't it more common nowadays more for the Police to ask for help from the outside with difficult cases?”  
John was still smiling, enjoying the way Harold talked 'around' the truth. “Yes, it is.” he simply answered.  
“So you see, he had me at his side. And didn't get rid of me. That's all, I'm afraid.” Harold concluded.  
“We had some trust issues first, but we worked it out.” John added wryly.  
Tilda shook her head, smirking, but Catherine wasn't satisfied.  
“Harold, that's quite a nice story but you left the romance out.”  
“Now.” She looked at John. “Maybe John here is more in the mood to tell me why you fell for each other?”  
Harold threw John a glance but said nothing.  
John stopped smiling and looked more seriously back to him.  
“I guess I fell for him the first time the way he told me he liked 'Eggs Benedict'.”  
Harold looked _very_ surprised while listening.  
“And then?” John looked again at Harold. “He saved my life. He gave me a second chance.”   
He shrugged. “I'm afraid that's the most of it. - And the romance, Catherine?” John had a small smile. “The romance came along. And at our worst, you two were there and saved us both from making the biggest mistake of our lives. Right, Harold?”  
Harold could simply nod, still processing what he had heard.  
“So this dinner tonight is the opportunity to thank you both for bringing us together again.” John concluded.  
Tilda smiled back and winked. “You forgot the dog, John. Without Bear and Henry...” she said, turning to Catherine, “...well, we could have never intervened. Glad we helped you two.”  
“But why were you both working in different jobs?” Catherine interrupted again. “You had both a burnout at the same time?” She didn't look convinced.  
“Something like that.” Harold answered simply with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.  
John shot one long look into Harold's direction and got a direct look back – which meant a lot to him and he felt how his heart started pounding again.  
For one moment he simply hoped that Harold had overcome his distance and that it would allow him to get near him again. Putting all the stuff that stood between them aside – Harold _still_ was someone _close_ to John's heart.  
Standing up, he collected the plates. “I'll go for the main course.”  
Tilda stood up from her chair. “Let's stay in the kitchen.”  
Catherine went up as well. “We won't leave you alone there...”  
John only nodded because he knew the ladies would guarantee Harold's presence while cooking again.  
“Kitchen party it is.”  
Harold walked slowly behind them, his face revealing nothing of his inner turmoil. This look from John's eyes, it had made his heart beat faster. The meaning behind it was pretty clear. Hope for _more_. Hope...?!  
He would definitely need more alcohol tonight to bring his ever working brain to a stop.

While John prepared the 'Tonno alla griglia' and the 'Parmigiana', they discussed kitchen equipment (something for Catherine and John), politics (something for Catherine and Harold) and where to get the best coffee in New York (something for Tilda and John). They also gossiped about special customers, whether shopping in a gallery or a coffeeshop (something for them all) - which made them burst out laughing a lot.  
Yes, tonight was a joy, spending time with friends... _and_ John, being charming, eloquent and sociable.   
John had tried to coax some personal things out of Tilda but hadn't been very successful. Nothing he hadn't known, anyway.  
Harold had opened a bottle of “Chianti” - a red wine which had won some awards - and organized new glasses. He and the ladies sipped a lot from the tasty and rich wine while John worked and chipped in some comments, enjoying a quick-witted and communicative Harold around him. Feeling the force of attraction between them in every glance Harold threw at him which he returned.  
Since they were not that hungry anymore, they decided to eat a little in the kitchen, standing around the counter.  
Catherine couldn't resist praising John again.  
“I think this is the best 'Parmigiana' I ever tried. And the 'Tonno alla griglia' is exactly the way it should be, well done at the outside, medium rare at the inside.” She sighed. “I wish I could eat more.”  
Tilda, next to her, only smirked at her words and added dryly: “I guess, John, what Catherine really wants to say is one can call your cooking skills overall fantastic. In my opinion, too, by the way. I guess I should have ordered you to cook for the whole staff after work every Sunday - if I only had known when you started working for me!” She laughed.  
John winked. “Not only a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets.”  
“Apt quotation.” Harold couldn't refrain from laughing.  
Catherine turned to him. “Well there are a lot of secrets on your side, too, Harold. I remember your reaction when Henry came tiredly into the gallery and told me about Bear behaving poorly trained. First so forward. Being withdrawn afterwards. I had to drag it all out of you!”  
John, having folded his arms, was now the one who listened with great interest. His look went over to Harold, who, apparently not knowing what to say, cleared his throat again.  
“I know we owe you both a lot, Catherine.” Harold finally said. Softly. “I guess it's human nature that we keep secrets, don't you think?”  
Catherine nodded slowly. “I didn't want to offend you, Harold. I am only wondering... you two seem to be so close, why didn't you fight more for each other? I am fighting with Tom all the time, but he is worth every fight.”  
Tilda agreed with her. “Yes, I was wondering, too. John?”  
John leaned forward, smiling to Harold. “Ladies, you're right that a lot of things are worth fighting for. I don't know. We were kinda...forced to separate for a while. Needed to rethink our lives, I guess.”  
He knew after he spoke that his mind was made up. If he were honest with himself, he would _always_ rather be with Harold. If there was a chance tonight, he would take it. He had not forgotten how happy he was the last time he held Harold in his arms.  
So he spoke into the silence: “I would like to serve dessert.”  
Tilda understood promptly. “Of course. What do we have?”  
John smiled. “Panna cotta.”  
He opened the fridge, while Harold came close to him, closer than ever before this evening.  
“Thank you for hopping in.” He murmured in John's ears and returned to the dining room, getting new plates and organizing the digestif, a fine old 'Grappa'.  
The evening was getting near midnight and although they had enjoyed a generous portion of alcohol – the ladies more than the men – it was all pleasant, until a grinning Tilda made a wisecrack. Seeing that John served pureed kiwifruit and _strawberries_ to the Panna cotta, she commented additionally: “Glad that I chose the right scent for the bottle of lubricant.”  
Throwing a look in Harold's direction.  
John looked at her uncomprehendingly.  
“Lubricant?”  
“I chose the strawberry scented one for you as a small present.” Tilda explained whimsically.  
Harold blushed deeply again, and John beside him – understanding now, knowing Tilda and her frankness well – laughed out loud. Such a beautiful laugh it was, it touched Harold deeply. This evening was indeed worth every discussion before, worth a lot more than Harold could have ever thought or dreamt of. 

They had some of the questions answered, some not or simply wavered around, so everything was in order. Harold hadn't known that John could be a very smart and witty host until this evening. Or was it indeed their _fondness_ for one another and the slight sexual tension they still shared, in which Harold bathed? And John glowed?


	7. Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This is classy Rinch.** Don't like, don't read. - Otherwise, enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** A warmhearted thank you, _justayellowumbrella_!
> 
> For _Wuchel_ It takes courage. You did it!  
>  For _Lucky7_ Now it's time to hide under the table with Bear.

After the ladies were gone – Tom, Catherine's husband, saying shortly “Hi”, curious about Harold's friend, not expecting the tall, handsome man shaking his hand “John” - and Tilda taken care of, Professor Whistler and Detective Riley were _eye to eye_ with one another.  
Harold wanted to say so much, wanted actually talk but now that the moment was here he thought it better to leave, simply wanting to protect John and their second covers. And he wanted it to protect at all costs – being the cautious one and knowing John to be sometimes the reckless one. It wasn't that he didn't trust John with his life – it was himself that he didn't trust. Especially remembering those happy four weeks. He had been tempted the whole day they had spent together to reach out to John. Bad idea. He took his coat and put it on, determined to leave.  
But John sensed his intention and put a hand on his shoulder.  
“Wait.” John said hoarsely. “Don't go... yet.”  
And after a moment, he added nearly desperate, taking all of his courage: “Stay with me. Tonight.”  
Harold hesitated, wanting so much himself, but still dreading the future much more.  
“Are you sure about this? Because I am not.” He answered slowly, fighting back his feelings.  
“Harold...” John made a step towards him, but Professor Whistler stepped back.  
“The answer is no. Good night, Detective Riley.”  
Harold sounded very genuine while shaking his head. He took his hat and hurried to the door. To escape?  
John, who felt him slipping away and knew this was his _very_ last chance to convince him otherwise, caught Harold right in his arms with two long steps.  
“I don't take no for an answer.” He murmured and kissed him, not waiting for his permission.  
Harold wanted to pull away at first, but he was caught up by the unexpected kiss from John and the feelings that he stirred in him. Wanted but unwanted at the same time. Didn't this whole evening seem to end in this? But he had made up his mind, hadn't he? He never wanted to endanger their covers again...  
“John.” A push made him stop the kiss. Harold took a _very_ long look at him.  
Knowing what would come, John had his eyes closed, cheeks flushed, breathing heavily and trying to steady himself for the blow that would come and that would hurt deeper than he would _ever_ be prepared for.  
However, standing there, full of life and so _different_ from the first time they met on the bench under the Brooklyn Bridge years ago, he was so beautiful to look at, even Harold couldn't choke the words out.  
There had always been something between them, untouched. He remembered so well those first nights with Bear at his side full of hurt _after_ Samaritan came online, _and_ the longing that went slowly but steadily along with it. Longing for life, longing for feelings and longing for having things back the way they were.  
Suddenly it seemed all fulfilled in meeting John again. And vanished when another new cover identity rushed in. He had been convinced to go back to work with the Machine although he hadn't wanted to at first.  
Had he made John responsible for dragging him back to this? For not leaving them on cloud nine? Had he declared his distance because of this? What went wrong when they shared those nights four weeks together? Everything? Nothing?

“Touch me. Hold me. Do whatever you want, John.” Harold had _finally_ given up with the storm of feelings inside him.  
“You know I love to touch you, Harold.” John whispered, moving his body against him. Tracing his hands down the skin, massaging lightly his tensed back to help him relax. It only heightened Harold's desire but he waited for John to continue this wonderful massage.  
And when John let his hands wander deeper, he couldn't resist the moan, feeling himself getting hard.  
It did feel exactly like those weeks they had spent together – finding a way to coexist and not letting go of each other, spending no night alone but instead with the other at his side.  
“I can be who I am with you.” John whispered again softly in his ear. “No expectations, just you and me.”  
Harold threw every caution to the wind and let pull them to the bedroom, following John's hand. If life were to end soon, he would have cursed himself to have missed that chance.

Softly, so softly John pulled Harold down to the sheets.  
“Let me...” he began and longed after Harold's belt. Then the chemise, the cuffs, the trousers, the socks – and the silk boxers he wore. Finished, having a naked Harold all for himself, John stripped as well.  
Blood shot through his veins. Although John carried the memories of all the nights with Harold inside him _and_ had put them aside - the passion, the ecstasy, it was _all_ still there.  
Maybe that was their destiny: to stay together, to be together and actually die together one day. In recent days John was pretty sure it would happen sooner than later.  
No more delays, no more destractions, no more sidekicks. Just Harold and him. He climbed onto the bed, smiled down at Harold and left a trail of kisses on his body.  
“Wait...”. Harold suddenly took John's wrists and held them tightly.  
“I'd like to seduce you.” John rasped. “If we only have this night, I want it to be special. For both of us.”  
Harold took a long look at him, silently.  
“I'd like to talk first...”  
“Really?” John looked deep into his eyes, then kissed him passionately.  
Harold was at a loss.  
“Let the words wait. Please.” John whispered in his ear. “Talk to me later. Right now, I want you and nothing else.”  
How could he resist such an offer? Harold felt the world spinning in his head. Maybe he had too much of that excellent Italian wine. John had clearly swept him off his feet again.  
“Then help me lose my mind.” Harold answered finally, waiting for John to take over, intertwining John's hands with his.  
“I will. I do.” And then he _did_ everything that made Harold lose his mind.

John started with slow, burning kisses. There was a pounding in his head to seek his release but he fought it and focused on pleasuring Harold. Enjoying every moan Harold made when their tongues touched or their fingertips met. Aligning their bodies, naked skin to naked skin. Harold's soft one, John's taut one. He still couldn't believe he had him in his bed again, had him actually all for his own. But he felt Harold's erection against his and he knew everything would be okay.  
Longing overtook. John wanted to kiss every inch of Harold's body, but he also wanted more. More, meaning to climax again and again. Having Harold in his arms while doing all the things he wanted to do.  
“Oh John...” Harold couldn't resist another moan. How easily John got through all of his defenses and drove him to another world that he had almost forgot existed. John, being so tender, caressing his hot spots until he was close to giving up...was he about to give all that up? When life was starting to be precious again?  
John moved his body, rolling on his back, taking Harold carefully onto him. Touching his face, with both hands, kissing him desperately in love. So hard with desire, he felt as if he would burst.  
“Sorry, can't wait... need to...” John gasped in Harold's ear. “Being with you feels too good, Harold.” And then he took their heated lengths in his hand and made them both come at the same time.  
It took a while before one of them was ready enough to speak again.

“That was...perfect, John.” Harold started. Slowly his hand touched John's head who rested now at his stomach and stroked his short hair. Wanting for him a less painful position after, John had put him on his back and nestled against him.  
“Glad to have you in my bed, Harold.” John answered after a while, pressing a kiss on the stomach.  
Harold smiled shortly.  
“Did I entertain you enough?” John continued, looking at him.  
Harold raised his eyebrows, mouth twitching. “In which room? Dining room or bedroom?”  
John smiled. “Thank you for letting me have you in both.”  
Harold couldn't resist grinning. “Speaking of, I think you passed.”  
“Let's just say _I_ didn't blush talking about lube...”  
Harold promptly blushed again. “Right about that.” He admitted.  
John, still thinking of the bottle of lubricant, had to laugh again. Harold's face had been priceless. Also the questions Tilda and Catherine had asked, wanting to satisfy their curiosity. They had no problems with boundaries or etiquette this time.  
“What's so funny?” Harold asked, a little bit confused.  
“Sorry, Harold.” John gave him a short kiss and looked up to him. “I just relived some of tonight's discussions...”  
Harolds look changed to a slight smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.  
“I didn't remember your Tilda being so blunt?” He added dryly.  
John just shook his head. “She is, in a positive way. Not very conventional though, Professor. You forget the look on your face at her coffeeshop while she questioned you _then_? I remember you doing that same face regarding her bluntness.”  
“So, you do remember.” Harold answered slowly. And it wasn't quite clear if he had meant the memory or the face that he had made.  
“Yes, I do.” John smiled again. “I also remember...happiness, Harold.” His look changed into a serious one. “Euphoria.”  
A pause. “I hadn't had that in a long time.”  
“Euphoria?” Harold was astonished. “That's a word... I would not use that way...”  
John looked doubtful. “Yeah I've seen how easy it was for you to end...all this?” He straightened, having his back to Harold so he could not see his face. The question loomed in the silence.  
Harold felt _this_ was the point where they definitely needed to talk.  
“John.” It was said softly with a touch on his back, so John turned around, letting Harold see his emotions for a short moment.  
He had found his voice again. “Alright, Harold.” He rasped. “Tell me what was more important than... us?”  
Harold hesitated. “I didn't mean to... I wanted to keep us safe...”  
He closed his eyes shortly, feeling way too much. He seemed to repeat everything over again, but he forced himself to speak.  
“I meant every word I said, John.” He started. “Seeing that we had to choose a new cover again meant that we had previously been in danger. That we – or I, apparently – hadn't acted cautiously enough...”  
John came up to him, not leaving his eyes.  
“Are you certain? It could have been that the Machine wanted us to start working again with the Numbers. In our new positions we're able to disappear. You as a professor, me as a cop. Before, we had a very regular schedule. No chance to miss some hours in between. Maybe _she_ wanted it that way, ever thought about that?”  
“Since when are you calling it a ' _she_ '?”  
“Must've talked too often with Root, I guess. Nevertheless, was this your only reason? To save us?”  
“What else do you blame me for, John? You think I let you down because it suited me?” Harold's voice cracked a little.  
“I'm not sure. I thought... I don't know. Maybe you're right. I thought it suited you well, getting rid of me in such an elegant way. But I don't blame you. Because after all, I think I forced you into the intimacy. Or did we both? I felt so lonely all the time. I couldn't believe I had you back in my life until... I had you in my arms.”  
John laid back onto the sheets, staring at the ceiling. “I guess that's why...we ended up in bed together the first time.” He turned his head back to Harold.  
“But tonight – tonight I really wanted you in my bed, Harold. No. I've _always_ wanted you in my bed. When we met again as Professor Whistler and Detective Riley. Since Tilda came up with the idea of a dinner with you, hope started to rise... like never before.”  
Harold was silent for a long moment.  
“You didn't say anything beforehand, John. That's why I thought, like you, it had been too rushed... _I_ had forced you into something you weren't really into.”  
“You didn't believe me capable of such a thing?” John said incredulously. “You, of all the people in my life?”  
Harold stared at him. “No. Not really. It was the best excuse I came up with, however.” He sighed and looked at his hands. “Tonight I wanted... to end this for once and for all, John. Turned out I couldn't. You are... what I can't stop longing for and I'm not sure...”  
John shifted quickly over the bed and stopped him by taking his wrist. “No, you don't understand, Harold. I want to be with you. That's why we are here now together. No point in going back and doing things differently. And I would be dead, anyway.”  
“You don't know that.”  
“Yes, I do. And you do, too. You took me off that path. So have the guts to tell me if you want me by your side, too. We both knew the danger of this job. Remember? 'If you're doing this – if we continue to do this, both of us will probably wind up dead. Actually dead, this time.' I haven't forgotten. Have you?”  
John got a little agitated, but Harold touched him softly.  
“So tell me what happened at the cabin?”  
John looked at him, questioning. “The cabin?”  
“Yes. Your last deathwish, I presume.”  
A shadow flew over John's face. “Turned out in the end, I didn't want to die out there, Harold.”  
Instinctively, he put a hand on his chest where the shot had been buried. It still hurt. But tonight not that much.  
“I just wanted... I don't know. Maybe I was chasing ghosts.”  
Harold confronted him. “The ghost of Detective Carter.”  
“I am still here, Harold.” John replied dryly. “But you are right. It was one of her cases, and I wanted to solve it for her... to feel close to her again, you know?” He breathed out loud. “I hallucinated in my hypothermia that she was sitting next to me and that we had a talk. You were there, too. But it turned out...that in the end, I realized it was just a hallucination. That I had nearly come close to fulfilling my self-prophecy... glad Lionel showed up, Harold.” John concluded, abruptly.  
“But since we're talking about the ladies, how about Mrs. Elizabeth Bridges? You never mentioned that you met her again here in New York. And the way Root spoke of her... it implied a lot.” John confessed.  
“How about Dr. Campbell?” Harold argued.  
That left John for a moment speechless. Guilt was written over his face. “What about Iris?”  
“Does she know that I am in your bed now?”  
John looked confused. “What do you mean?”  
“Isn't she... your doctor with benefits?”  
“She is not! - Who do you think I am, Harold?”  
A tone of bitterness could not be overheard. “I admit that we kissed. But there's not much time left between my day job in the precinct and my job protecting the numbers – as you know?!”  
Harold stayed silent for a moment, pressing his lips tightly together. Yes, that was true. He knew John was involved in almost every number. It had been simple jealousy that had brought him to believe...  
“I am sorry.” He answered. And he meant it. It seemed as if they were both stuck.  
“Harold.” John's soft voice again, near him. “What does it take to make you understand that none of this... matters? Just the two of us. I know you want to protect me. But I don't need protection. I need... _you_. Whatever it takes. Especially since we don't know...how much time is left.” John's honest words touched a string in Harold.  
“I know, John.” Harold was far away from being content, but he could see John's point.  
“What are you proposing, then.” He asked softly after a while.  
“The same as you?” John wasn't sure if he had caught him in the right way.  
“To stay together.” And it wasn't a question, it was a fact. Harold looked directly into John's eyes, only to see the beginning of an open smile in his face. He slid his hand over John's shoulders and down his chest, thrilled at the feel of the skin, the scars beneath his fingers. 

This time, Harold kissed John. Without hesitation. Without restraint. Which made John moan this time.  
Made him shiver. Made him pant. Harold looked down their bodies and saw that he was definitely not the only one who was aroused. He guided his hand very slowly to John’s length and took the hot, soft tip into his fingers. He stroked him gently with his fingertips fearing that contact with his whole hand might loosen the binds he kept tight on his passion. John groaned loudly, watching him and feeling at the same time Harold hesitate. He came up to him.  
“I don't want to close my eyes, Harold.” John whispered. “I don't want to miss anything...”  
Harold could only watch with astonishment the adoration in John's eyes. It sent chills down his spine. He leaned towards him for another lingering kiss, lost in the sensation, in the pleasure, in the delicious need. He heard their excited breath. Felt John's body moving against his. _Sharing_ the need and sensation and pleasure. It was exhilarating. It was unforgettable.  
Harold felt himself carefully eased down the bed again, lying side by side. Faster and faster they moved. Pleasure burst through him, waves and waves that washed over him. His muscles tensed in the same way he felt John's...

Coming down from the intensity of the shared moment, Harold was wondering about a lot of things.  
Why did he felt so sure with John at his side in bed? Why could John give him this feeling of being at ease with himself when nobody before did? It must have something to do with the age, Harold decided. Or with being at peace for this passionate moment with John.  
For one short moment, he was not in fear of the future – as he always dreaded it – but he wanted to welcome the here and now, having John by his side, not being alone.  
John, who had shown him how to follow his heart, whatever the cost or the risk. He was looking for John's hand on the sheets and when he found it, he took it and held it.

John, comfortably tired but still high on emotions smiled when Harold put his hand over his.  
He should have known. There was no way back for them after tonight. He would have never imagined how good they could be together... _again_ in bed. Touching his heart and his soul. That adorable man, always there for him. Always ready to jump when he was jumping, too.  
Making him feel. Knowing it all.  
How could he have not foreseen what this meant? He would never be able to let him go again. Quite frankly, he didn't want to. In their first coming together John had seen the loneliness as their bonding element. They had been both so forlorn that one thing had led to another. But here, right now, they were there because they both wanted to be. Because it had to be.  
Harold was his only and surely last chance of being himself and not pretending. Not being careful of what to say. Not guarding the things he was doing.  
Just dreaming, relaxing... and falling to sleep, because tonight was different. Tonight he had been given a second chance - again. Harold was still here and that was all that mattered.  
Spooning him, John followed Harold in his sleep.


	8. Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** ...with the help of _justayellowumbrella_ and _Wuchel_ (whump!).

Harold was woken up by a soft kiss, looking directly into John's tired but bright eyes, kneeling before him.  
“Couldn't go without a goodbye kiss, sorry.” He rasped, smiling.  
Harold got slowly up, yawning. “What time is it?” He had slept so well...  
“A quarter past five. Lionel called. I've got to go to the precinct.” John answered.  
He took Harold's hand. “You can continue to sleep. Bear's here.”  
He stood up.  
“John.”  
Harold hung onto his hand. So many things on his mind, but in the end he couldn't grab one word at all.  
“Harold.” John bent down again, still smiling.  
“Late night snack, Professor? Gotta go now.”  
He squeezed Harold's hands again, kissed him and left.  
Harold heard him talk briefly to Bear, then the apartment door clicked.  
One night had catapulted him into new life circumstances. He wasn't at all prepared for what was to come, but he decided that this time, he wanted to _hang on_. Hang on to John.

The precinct was really busy at this early hour. Upon arriving there, John was informed that the Brotherhood and Elias had struck again.  
He knew that Elias would probably never stop seeking revenge for Anthony – until he got it, so to say. And Dominic was really trying to gain the upper hand in this gang war. No doubt there was a storm coming.  
It seemed that today, he was truly stuck in the precinct, and he knew that if he tried to sneak away, Fusco would get another reprimand from their Captain. He didn't want to get Lionel in more trouble he already had because of him.  
John thought for one moment of his warm bed and Harold still in it and sighed. How he longed to go back there... he earned another amused look from Lionel.  
“That fax woman really has you, Sunshine. Judging from your look, you didn't get much sleep. Busy night?”  
John couldn't suppress a small chuckle, still high on emotions. Didn't matter with whom Lionel guessed.  
“Yeah.”  
Lionel chuckled, too. “Glad that one of us enjoyed the night. This isn't going to be a good day, I'm afraid.” His tone of voice had changed to a serious one.  
“What do we have so far?” John asked and then they were in the middle of policework. 

In between he was still thinking of Tilda. Since he was not able to leave the precinct, he had asked Harold for help. After class Harold had checked on Tilda and had told John that she was still in her coffeeshop, as he knew well by himself. She always worked beyond her shifts.  
Maybe he should just pay her a visit again. In the late afternoon, the precinct finally started to wind down a little bit. He was definitely in need of a cup of good coffee, not having slept much. But the night with Harold... had been worth _everything_. His heart was in it. And he felt the whole day as if he were protected under the umbrella of Harold's love. He wondered himself how long he had survived without him. He just couldn't stop smiling inwardly.  
Finally, a possibility for slipping away presented. John went over to Lionel.  
“Running a personal errand.” He said to him. “I'll be back in an hour.”  
“Don't forget to be, Sunshine, or I'll show up.” Fusco grinned back to him.  
This time, John slipped a note to him. “That's where you can find me, partner.” He rasped and vanished.  
Lionel gawped after him, the note in his hands. Did John really intend him to show up in time? The note was nagging at him. Did he ever see John acting like this before? Maybe he really should pay that fax woman a visit. John was glowing the whole day. Almost happy. Lionel had suspected that he was involved with Dr. Campbell, but now he wasn't sure anymore.  
On an impulse, he checked the address. Tilda's coffeeshop? On the internet he found a sharp and clear photo which reminded him of the fax. That was her? He thought of Ms. Morgan and Dr. Campbell. John's taste had run in a different direction so far. Maybe there was more in the saying 'Love is blind.' than he ever believed. And it had him bad, Lionel realized. He also took the liberty of checking on her in the police records, but there was nothing to be found. She seemed to be a 'clean with both feet planted firmly on the ground' woman, he thought. Maybe that was what Wonderboy needed after all. Fusco was determined to show up in time to not let his partner down.

John got quickly through the traffic and reached Tilda's coffeeshop in time for meeting her. He parked in front of the shop and went for the glassdoor, knocking.  
Tilda opened the door, surprised – and he was not sure, but _perhaps_ a little bit relieved that it was him.  
“You expected someone else?” he asked her.  
Tilda didn't answer that, just let him in.  
“Coffee?” John mentioned hopefully.  
Tilda smiled and made him freshly brewed coffee without saying anything.  
John inhaled the smell. “How I missed that.” He smiled, too.  
Tilda stood there, her arms crossed. “What are you here for, Detective?”  
“Still looking for the danger you're in.” John confessed, sipping her excellent coffee.  
Tilda snorted. “Really.” She shook her head. “I thought, after yesterday...”  
“Everything is clear?” John helped her out. “I don't know, Tilda. You tell me. Call it a hunch. You tried to avoid personal questions, too.”  
For the first time, he saw her hesitate.  
She sighed. “There may be a situation...I find myself in.”  
“A situation?” _He_ knew that the Machine was always right.  
“There's someone...I care for.” Tilda said slowly.  
John only listened, watching her. Tilda was usually not lost for words. There must be something...  
“But I think she...is in danger. - She won't admit it.”  
“I could be a lot more help, Tilda, if you let me in.”  
She smirked, looking at him. “And that's from you, letting nobody in yourself.”  
He felt himself relegated into the car with Joss and his hallucination.  
“I'm trying to change that.” John heard himself admit.  
Tilda smiled. “Yeah. I saw it yesterday, John. You let Harold in. That's true.”  
She hung her head.  
“I knew her sister Sara. We went to school together. She always told me to look out for her little sister because she got into a lot of trouble. Well, I kind of did after Sara died. - Not long after you quit working in my coffeeshop she came to my door.” Tilda paused.  
“We picked off where we had left after the funeral of Sara years ago – and, I don't know, she kinda got through to me...”  
John could only guess what Tilda meant.  
“You mean you became more than friends?”  
Tilda sighed again and nodded. “It's a little bit complicated...Floyd does not have much time for herself, so we meet on her terms. Twice a month, that's all I get from her.”  
Tilda smiled nevertheless. “But it's worth every fight, you know. Like Catherine mentioned yesterday. And I am very busy myself.”  
John wasn't sure if he heard accurately. Floyd? Floyd? Floyd... Suddenly he put a face to the name.  
Small. Hispanic looking. Damn good and fast with a gun. Very loyal to Dominic.  
“She belongs to a gang named Brotherhood?” he asked her.  
Tilda looked surprised. “You know her?”  
John only nodded. How could he protect Tilda when she was involved with the gang lady?  
He saw Tilda's smile and he could only assume that she knew a side of Floyd nobody knew. Not even Dominic.  
They turned both around when somebody else knocked on the glass door.  
“That's her.”  
Tilda blushed a little and run for the door, so John knew she was deep in, too. He stepped a little back in the shadows, closer to the the coffee machine.  
Floyd stormed in when Tilda opened the door and they kissed in a way that made John realize this was more than just a fling.  
But it didn't take long for Floyd to notice him there in the shadows.  
“Thought you were alone?” She asked Tilda almost in a frosty way, nodding towards him.  
“He's a very good friend.” Tilda replied and took her by her hand, leading her to John in the shadows.  
John had only seconds to think things through. He decided to stick with the cover right now.  
“John, this is Floyd.” Tilda smiled.  
“The lady and I know each other.” He simply said.  
Floyd gave him a reproachful look. “You're that detective.”  
She turned to Tilda. “How do you know him?”  
“He used to work for me...” Tilda almost defended herself, baffled about the sudden tension in the room. “You can trust him.”  
“Oh yeah? Better shoot him.” And in a second, Floyd had her weapon ready, aiming at John.  
Tilda was speechless for a moment, but gained her spirits back.  
Quickly, she stood in front of John and the gun, facing her girlfriend.  
“Let him go, Floyd.” She said sharply. “I don't know what went on between you two – and I don't wanna know. But he came in peace. No shooting in my coffeeshop.”  
Floyd didn't flinch, still aiming. “Then I want his word, Tilda.”  
John put a hand on Tilda's shoulder, but looked directly into Floyd's eyes so they could come to an understanding. “Because of _her_ , your secret is safe with me.” He pressed.  
He squeezed Tilda's shoulder and leaned towards her. “Call you later.”  
He went around the ladies and to the door without looking back, letting himself out.  
Dusk had settled in.

He spotted them in seconds, three men across the street, exiting a black van. Dominic's? Or Elias'?  
In one instant he was back in the coffeeshop.  
“Being followed?” John asked in the direction of Floyd.  
“Brought your friends with you?” Tilda asked her.  
“No.” Floyd hissed, taking a look outside the glass door. “Damn, Tito.”  
“Tito?” Tilda asked again.  
“Competition in the field.” Floyd snapped while pulling her gun from behind.  
They heard glass shatter from behind. Probably from Tilda's bureau. They were stuck in the middle. Tito wanted to make sure that Floyd wouldn't leave.  
“Take Tilda to the fire exit behind you.” John ordered. “I'll cover you and wait for backup.”  
Knowing that Floyd was experienced in street battles, he trusted that she would take Tilda safely with her.  
Tilda took one look. “I won't leave my coffeeshop.”  
But Floyd understood immediately, captured her in a rough way and dragged her to the exit.  
Just in time, the front door fell into pieces simultaneously with the fire exit alarm. Three men in. Good thing that Tilda had left the lights off, so he stayed behind the counter in the dark.  
John really hoped that Lionel would keep their appointment and show up soon.  
In another moment, hell broke loose.


	9. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** I was thinking about adding another _classy Rinch_ chapter because of the lovely comments I got so far. We'll see!  
> 

John's first instinct was to shoot his way free right to the door, but then he remembered he was a cop.  
“NYPD!” He called, but the only answer he got was another round of fire.  
When the shots flew from both sides, John knew he was in trouble. To be caught in the crossfire was not in his favor. He had to move.  
He slipped around the corner of the wooden counter and dived headlong in the shadow of one of the columns in the cafe. Good thing that he knew the coffeeshop by heart. Having his gun ready, he kneecapped two of the three men in front of him. But one was still up. He immediately earned another blast of shots which exploded right above his head. Bits of sharp broken glass rained down on him. He felt some like needles on his hands because he had put his arms up to protect his head. Not for the first time Reese cursed the events that made him be and act like a cop now and armed with only one gun and not enough ammunition for any situation. He missed his former well stocked weapon arsenal badly. But it was time to move again.  
He scooted forward, knowing where the last one of the three men from the black Van outside the coffeeshop was and kneecapping him on sight, rolling over to another column to cover himself when the next round of shots started. When they stopped, he thought he imagined to hear police sirens approaching. Lionel! He breathed a sigh of relief...but not for long when the fire exit door opened and Tilda came back in, calling his name.  
“Get down!” He shouted, moving instinctively forward again to reach the counter in time. But he was too late. When he sprinted to the counter, he already saw Tilda in the arms of another man with a gun aimed at her head. Must be one of the men from behind the bureau, he guessed. Tito?  
He stopped, and a weapon clicking at his back made him sink his gun.  
“NYPD.” He rasped breathless.  
“I know who you are.” The man having Tilda in his power said to him. Then to her: “Where's your friend gone?”  
Tilda said nothing, just shaking her head.  
“Okay.” He nodded to the man standing behind John.  
“If I get no answer, I'll shoot your friend here.”  
“She's gone.” Tilda answered hastily.  
“Not enough.”  
“I don't know!” Tilda exclaimed.  
“Where?”  
“I really don't know!” Tilda conjured him.  
The shot came unexpectedly and made John spin before he hit the floor. His shoulder again. The sudden hurt made him nearly lose his consciousness.  
Far away, he thought he could hear Fusco's voice and other shots fired. But Fusco was coming. Since the attention was on the door right now, John reacted as he was trained to do. He pulled the rug out from under the man who shot him, caught his weapon and gunned Tito down in one fluid moment.  
Tilda, being freed, dropped beneath him, full of worries.  
“You okay, John?” She said to him, touching his hand. His vision was blurred for a short time, but he tried to stay conscious.  
“I'm okay, Tilda.” He answered slowly and straightened up. The world was still spinning, but he stayed upright. “What about you?” He took her hand.  
“Shaken, but fine...” Tilda started but was interrupted by another voice.  
“Good thing I came in time, Wonderboy. Trouble's always right around the corner with you.”  
Lionel stood beside him, his face worried, too.  
John rolled his eyes but smiled slightly, still pressing his wounded shoulder with his other hand.  
“Tilda, this is Detective Lionel Fusco, my partner. - Lionel, this is Tilda.”  
“Hi.” Was all that Lionel said, yanking his questioning eyes away from Tilda to John now. “You hurt? How bad is it?”  
“Just a graze.” John waved only a little, careful not to show more of his bleeding.  
“Should let them check on that.” Lionel admonished him softly and then he welcomed the whole emergency backup that had arrived at the scene.  
Tilda squeezed John's hands. “Thank you, John.” She said warmheartedly.  
“Promise me you won't see Floyd again?” He joked.  
She shook her head, smiling. “Can't. Remember? I made a promise to her sister, John.”  
“Then you let me know when she's around?”  
“Alright, big brother. I'll call you!” Tilda teased and boxed him in the side, earning a painful huff from John.  
“Sorry. Forgot.” She spoke in a hasty way. “You come by whenever you're up for coffee again?” She sighed loudly and looked around. “Time for new equipment, anyway.”  
With a slight smile, a wave of tiredness washed over John. All of a sudden, he had come down from the adrenaline rush.  
Tilda had watched him and smiled back. “I forgot you also had... a _busy night_ , hm? Used my small present?”  
John only winked back, not really wanting to comment any further.  
“See you around, Tilda.” Was all he answered and turned, searching for Fusco.  
“Going home, Lionel.” He paused. “I'll write the report tomorrow. Alright?”  
Lionel subjected him with a thorough review and looked over to Tilda.  
“ _That's_ your fax lady?” Lionel raised his eyebrows.  
John sighed. “Her name is Tilda, Lionel.”  
“Yeah, yeah.” Lionel waved aside. “From what I've heard...”  
“Yes, Lionel?” John waited patiently.  
“She's involved with Dominic's right hand?” He sounded almost... disappointed.  
Reese looked him in the eyes, nodding. Still not understanding the point here.  
“Thought you and her...” Here Lionel turned and harrumphed something.  
Reese rolled his eyes again, but couldn't resist another twitch of the corners of his mouth.  
“ _Not_ my girlfriend, Lionel.”  
He went straight to the shattered door, but he heard bits and pieces of Fusco's last question.  
“Then who... your busy night?”  
All Lionel could hear was John's laughing when he left. Wonderboy seemed to take it the funny way? Lionel shook his head. Sometimes John was still a mystery to him.

Harold had returned to John's apartment after his class and passing by Tilda's coffeeshop to tell him she was still there. Not sure if John would return that early after his busy day at the precinct he had pulled some leftovers from the dinner yesterday out of the fridge. He was just about to eat them when he heard the door open. The whole day he was looking forward to that evening... having John a little bit for himself. And what else... they were open to do.  
So he was really shocked when John came into the kitchen with his bloodstained shirt and obviously wanted him to patch him up.  
“John. What happened?” Harold started up from the chair and came around.  
“Just a graze, Harold.” John deadpanned.  
“I know your grazes too well, John. Sit still. Otherwise it won't stop bleeding.” Harold told him with an earnest look and went for the first aid kit.  
Binding his wounds, Harold couldn't help but shake his head multiple times. “You were shot again?”  
John sighed. “I had to protect Tilda. Turned out she has a thing going with one of Dominic's gang.”  
Harold raised his eyebrows. “She does?”  
John nodded. “Don't worry Finch, she's safe for now. But I fear we have a much larger problem at hand. Had a lot of incidents today at the precinct concerning Dominic and Elias. A coming gang war seems much closer than I thought.”  
Harold touched his hands. “Not tonight, John. Tonight is ours. Are you hungry?”  
John leaned in for a kiss and said wryly: “I am.”  
Harold also poured a glass of red wine for John and put it in front of him. Raised only his eyebrows concerning John's remark.  
“I took the liberty of opening another bottle of your well-stocked wine rack...since you bought them for house guests _and_ bedroom guests.”  
The corner of John's mouth twitched. “Back to the wine? It'd be a shame to waste it.”  
They clinked glasses.  
“Indeed.” Harold answered. “You know, yesterday I forgot to tell you that in particular the 2011 Cabernet...”  
He didn't get far in telling, because John silenced him with another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N** This work is dedicated to a lot of people...
> 
>  _justayellowumbrella_ who helped me through all of my struggles; her positive feedback really got me writing again
> 
>  _scully1138_ who made me remember that writing Rinch is a calling
> 
>  _Wuchel_ for her quiet (because this is not her cup of tea) support and friendship
> 
>  _KRyn_ as an inspiration for tender stories
> 
>  _madaboutdanny_ (I'm sure she loves that John cooks Italian. As do I.)
> 
> I don't know. I started this story in November 2015, frustrated with no news about POI S5 and finding not much happy and gentle stories either on AO3 or ffnet. So I decided to write again, a happy moment for our boys.  
> Classy Rinch in later chapters.
> 
> (For _Lucky7_ : I'll tell you when to hide under the table with Bear again!)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own or make any money from Person of Interest.


End file.
